Turtles and Drunken Poetry
by Spun
Summary: Kink meme deanon. Spain's poetically inebriated text messages and Germany and Veneziano's public displays of affection would be enough to make anyone sick, but it hits Romano particularly hard. Axe murderers, fever dreams, and talking turtles ensue.
1. One

**Turtles and (Drunken) Poetry**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Hetalia_ and I'm not making money off of this because no one would pay for it. :)

**Warnings: **Somewhat graphic descriptions of illness that might bother the squeamish.

**Pairing(s): **Spain/Romano mainly, sprinkled with Germany/Veneziano and random references to other pairings.

**Notes: **De-anoning from the kink meme - the request was _Can I please have something about throwing up? Doesn't have to be necessarily gory, but something. Like... somebody's upchucking because of a cold, a nightmare._

This actually has surprisingly little to do with turtles and poetry, drunken or otherwise.

_

* * *

_

Romano woke with a dull, thumping headache, a sunbeam burning through his eyelids, the corner of a book jabbing into his thigh, and a full bladder.

And, when he managed to crack an eye open, he discovered he was on the floor.

_The hell?_

He turned his head from side to side, wincing as his neck protested the movement. _Damn it. I feel like shit._ He was curled up on the rug in front of his closet, underneath a blanket, far enough from his bed that he hadn't just fallen off during the night. In fact, now that he thought about it, he hadn't _gone_ to bed last night. He remembered storming around for a bit, cussing under his breath while he waited for his brother to get home from his "date" with the potato bastard (not because he was worried, or anything), and pretending to be asleep when Veneziano did get back so he wouldn't know he'd stayed up. What he _didn't_ remember was why he had decided sleeping on the floor was a good idea, but it was sort of a moot point by now.

As Romano sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, the pressure in his bladder increasing to unbearable proportions, he spotted his cell phone lying on top of a dog-eared cookbook. The little light on the front was blinking red, alerting him that he had a new text message.

Or, he noticed when he picked it up, eight new text messages. They were all from the same unfamiliar number. Desperately hoping that there wasn't some kind of top-secret criminal business at hand, Romano opened the oldest text.

**To: Cute Romano!**

…although, if this was the Mafia's new way of getting in touch with him, he was going down there and punching every single one of them in the throat, consequences be damned.

**From: Your Secret Admirer! **

**you are so cute**

**like the root**

**of a tomato**

**but not a potato**

**since you don't like those**

**your cute little toes**

**should be in my garden**

**while the tomatoes harden**

**you always **

The message cut off there. Romano went to the next one with a feeling of dread.

**scowl**

**when you pick up a trowel**

**and get dirt on your hands**

**your cute little hands**

**i want to hug you every time**

**i hear the clock chime**

**my heart sings**

**when the phone rin**

And the next…

**ngs**

**and you're calling me**

**i want to say 'whee'**

**your cute little pout**

**never fills me with doubt**

**cause you're sweet deep down**

**like a clown**

**or like a sugar bowl**

**you make m**

It went on, and on, and on. Out of sheer morbid curiosity, he kept reading, if only to see how much worse it could get. He knew perfectly well who the sender was long before he reached the end of the poorly composed 'poem' in the seventh message, where the writer went on to say:

**i loe you!**

**by the way, you left your rosary at my house the other night.**

**from your secret admirer! **

Romano gave serious consideration towards introducing a hammer to his cell phone. There was still one unopened text in his inbox, though, and for the sake of thoroughness he selected it.

**that was supposed to say 'love'. i'm not an idiot.**

**:D :D :D :D! **

_Good fucking Lord._ Romano hit 'reply', typed **Spain, you slack-jawed imbecile, what the fuck was that? **, and sent it before getting up to finally relieve his cramping bladder.

Spain must have been near his phone, because he received a response not a minute later.

**How did you know it was me?**

**I got a new phone! :D**

_Gee, that's a hard one,_ Romano thought irritably, rubbing his aching eyes. **Because you're the only moron I know who would rhyme 'hands' with 'hands'. Were you fucking high or something? And what happened to your old phone?** He pressed 'send' and turned on the faucet. His reflection in the bathroom mirror looked about as wonderful as he felt – bloodshot eyes with dark bruises under them, hair an errant mess, pale, and scowling. He'd gotten a crappy excuse for a night's sleep and it showed. Yawning, he cupped his hands under the spout and splashed some cold water on his face.

His cell vibrated. **I went out with France and Prussia last night.** _Translation: he was completely shitfaced._ **I dropped my phone in my tomato soup and it died. :'(**

"How the fuck does anyone drop a phone into a bowl of soup?" Romano asked the sink. It gurgled a bit in reply and he shut off the water, drying his hands and face on a towel. Well, at least as dying went, it wasn't the worst way to go. Drowning in _potato_ soup was an entirely different story. **Dumbass. **

Spain sent him a line of hearts, a smiley face, and an 'I love you' with six exclamation points tacked onto the end. Romano didn't know whether to be touched or exasperated. He settled for a little of both, tucked his phone into his pocket (just in case Spain decided to say something else completely idiotic that Romano would have to yell at him for, of course), and proceeded out into the hall.

He made it as far as the stairs before stopping dead. Veneziano's chirpy voice had been audible from his bedroom, but now he could hear another, lower voice. This one had an unmistakable German accent.

_Oh, fuck me._

_

* * *

_

God _damnit_. He couldn't get even one day of peace away from his brother's fuck-buddy, could he?

Romano stomped down the stairs, making no attempt to muffle his footfalls. He wanted them to hear him coming – that way, if they were doing something inappropriate, unsanitary, deviant, or otherwise revolting, they could stop before he got there.

Apparently, it wasn't enough of a warning, because when Romano crossed the threshold to the kitchen, he got an eyeful of Veneziano and Germany. Right in front of the stove, where a pot of water was bubbling. And they were _necking_.

"What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing?" he forced out through gritted teeth.

With almost deliberate slowness, Veneziano untangled himself from the blond asshole, beaming at his brother like he hadn't just been two minutes and one less pair of pants away from getting bent over the counter. "Romano, you're awake!"

"No shit," Romano growled. Germany looked vaguely annoyed and turned back to stir the pot before it boiled over. "Couldn't you find someplace else to be disgusting? This is the _kitchen_. People eat in here!" He yanked out a chair at the table and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest. Obviously, they needed strict adult supervision, since they were acting like a pair of horny teenagers out on their first date.

Veneziano's sunny smile faded a bit. He peered closer and said, "_Ve_, Romano, you don't look very well. Maybe you should go back upstairs and lay down. I'll bring you some lunch when it's done."

Oh, so now they were trying to get rid of him? _Hell fucking no. The moment I step out of this room, you're going to start slobbering all over each others' faces again._ "I'm _fine_. And I don't want any, you two have probably contaminated it by now."

"We didn't spit in it or anything," Veneziano said, looking confused.

"That's not what I meant, idiot!"

Before Veneziano could inquire further, Germany cleared his throat and said, "The water's ready," and he went bouncing back over to the stove to put the pasta in. Romano folded his arms on the table and put his head down. Despite what he'd told his brother, he didn't feel very fine – probably because he'd spent the night with only a thin rug between him and the cold, hard floor, but it didn't matter. A good nap and he'd be back to normal.

He must have actually dozed off, because suddenly the kitchen smelled like spaghetti and meatballs. Romano picked up his head and his stomach rolled at the sight that greeted him. Veneziano was putting the finishing touches on the sauce and Germany was standing much closer than was strictly necessary, a hand on the small of his back (_I swear to God if he touches my brother's ass I will gut him_), murmuring something too quiet for Romano to hear. Veneziano giggled, though, grinning brightly before leaning up to peck him on the cheek. Germany actually _smiled_ back and slipped out of the room.

Then Veneziano turned to Romano. "Lunch is almost ready. Doesn't it smell _wonderful_?"

"No," Romano muttered, because it honestly didn't right now, "you probably made it wrong. And you two are being so _sappy_. You're making me sick."

Veneziano, as usual, didn't look the slightest bit fazed. Instead, he offered up another brilliant smile and said, "I can't help it, Romano. I love him!"

Silence.

Somewhere, the sun was peacefully shining down on a cozy, peaceful house, and inside that house someone peacefully made lunch, probably humming a peaceful little song, peaceful life completely free of the turmoil that was currently plaguing Italy. And the peaceful bastard had Romano's rosary.

_That is just fucking __it__. I'm going to Spain's. _

Romano got up and left the room. He walked past Germany without screaming or socking him in the face, swiped his keys from the counter, shoved his shoes onto his feet. He'd slept in his clothes, so he had his wallet, phone, and passport in his pocket. Shaking his head in sheer disgust – Veneziano had _officially_ lost his mind – he pulled on his coat and opened the door.

"Wait, Romano, where are you going?"

"Out!"

"_Ve_ – don't you want any –"

Romano slammed the front door as hard as he could.

"…lunch?"

* * *

Romano made it to the airport in record time, breaking a few speed records along the way and narrowly evading a police officer by making an illegal U-turn on the highway, blazing down the on-ramp, and running two red lights in quick succession. Spain had said once that half of the traffic laws in Italy had probably been enacted because of him, but Romano tended to disagree – first of all, he wasn't a _bad_ driver, just a proactive one. Second, since Spain had been clinging to the upholstery and gibbering mindlessly for most of the drive, he doubted it was a well thought out judgment. And, third, when it came to real jailable offences, _Veneziano_ was the one who stole cars, even if he always returned them before the owners found out. He drove like a lunatic, too. He got off scot-free, Romano had had his license revoked six times. The unfairness of it all was nauseating.

Regretting the day he'd taught his idiot brother how to hotwire a car, Romano sulked into the terminal and sat down as far away from everyone else as he could get. He'd managed to snag the single remaining seat on a last-minute flight to Madrid, if only because the 11:30 coming in from Glasgow was horribly behind. "Blame Iceland," the woman at the desk had said with an apologetic shrug as she'd handed him his boarding pass.

_Oh, yeah,_ Romano thought, _that's a fucking brilliant idea. And then Norway will make it rain snapping turtles or something and we'll all be totally screwed._ General consensus was that pissing off Norway should be avoided at any cost, and the easiest way to get on his hit list was to upset his little brother. That didn't take much, these days – the kid was a complete disaster – so Romano just stayed away from them both, and the other three as well for good measure. Those five were almost _too_ close, and they were fiercely protective of one another. Romano, naturally, assumed they were all sleeping together, but no matter what was really going on with that group up there, he still didn't want to bring their collective wrath down on himself. It was easiest to pretend he'd never even heard the words 'humongous volcanic ash cloud cutting off transportation all over Europe'.

Despite the delay, he didn't have to wait long before they began boarding. At least _something_ today was going all right. He squeezed into his seat and tried to make himself as comfortable as humanly possible, which, unfortunately, wasn't much. Romano had always loathed flying – airplanes, he believed, were God's way of punishing him for his sins by cramming him into a tiny, inescapable area with the most unsavory people on Earth. Screaming child? Check. Particularly rotund businessman glued to his cell phone in the seat next to him? Check. Large cluster of annoying tourists/teenagers/Germans? Check, check, and check. Worse still was the claustrophobia that came with knowing that he couldn't get out once they'd left the ground. Frankly, he preferred cars, but he was too tired to drive for eighteen hours.

His phone buzzed. Romano flipped it open.

**Hiii Romano! :) Want to come over for dinner tonight?**

**I miss you! You're so cute!**

"Excuse me, sir, please buckle your seatbelt, we'll be taking off in a few minutes," an attendant said loudly. She sounded like she wanted to add a few filthy words to her request. Romano did what he was told without looking up, mentally composing a rant and then trimming it down to 160 characters.

**Fine. I'll be there soon.**

**Stop using so many exclamation points, idiot. I feel like I'm talking to a ten-year-old girl.**

**And I am not cute, you bastard.**

Spain's reply came right before he shut his phone off.

**All right! :) I'm going to mop the floors before I start dinner, so come in through the back, okay?**

**I love you!**

Romano typed a response that consisted of 'okay' and 'I know, you tell me twelve fucking times a day', sent it, and powered down his cell before it interfered with the airplane's computers and they crashed and all died a horrible fiery death. He wasn't _afraid_ of planes or anything ridiculous like that, he just didn't trust any mode of transportation that required someone on the outside to help lift off and land. It was all Spain's damn fault that he had to do this, anyway – if he just lived closer, there wouldn't be a problem. Not that there was a problem. He was in no way scared of something as stupid as a bloody _airplane_.

Once they'd finally gotten off the ground, Romano uncurled himself, stopped praying, and shoved the flat airline-issue pillow between his head and the window so he could mope in relative comfort. He was stuffed into a death trap for the next two hours, while Veneziano and his boytoy were probably happily screwing away on the dining room table. He made a mental note to disinfect it when he got back. The kitchen, too. Hell, he might as well just do the entire house – God knew what else they might have desecrated.

What did Veneziano see in that potato-sucking bastard, anyway? It was like he'd already forgotten everything Germany had done to them during World War Two. Of course, whenever he brought that up, Veneziano just frowned and insisted it was a long time ago and things had changed, and Romano should really try to stop dwelling on all that, because Germany was so _smart_ and _interesting_ and _wonderful_! Romano made a face at the thought. He had a long memory, and seventy years wasn't really so much compared to some of his other grudges. That Holy Roman Empire brat had kicked his shins once when they were kids and he _still_ intended to punch him in the head if he ever turned up again.

It was different with Germany, however, because every day Romano had to sit there and play nice and pretend it didn't _bother_ him that the creep was fucking his baby brother. Plus, if Germany hung around for long enough, that meant Prussia would show up sooner or later. Like having one of them in his house wasn't bad enough! Romano had eventually needed to devise a few little ways of getting revenge. They'd stayed over last Saturday night for one of Veneziano's 'sleepovers', and he had dragged them all out of bed at the crack of dawn for the first Mass of the day, knowing full well that Veneziano had kept them up until almost four. It'd almost backfired on him. Prussia was such an obnoxious egomaniac that Romano usually forgot that he had been Catholic, and he – who never shut his big mouth when he was awake and talked incessantly in his sleep – had been so quiet during the sermon it was a tad scary. The devout silence was welcome, coming from him, and Romano was confronted with the sudden realization that _holy shit he was actually kind of sort of starting to think about respecting one of the morons the tiniest bit!_ The albino bastard got points taken off for saying the prayers in German, though.

Germany, on the other hand, had looked terribly uncomfortable and out-of-place through the whole thing. Romano thusly considered his plan a success. Still, he kept coming by, charming Veneziano and flashing him those little smiles and touching him and probably giving him all kinds of awful sexual diseases and _why couldn't he just leave them the fuck alone?_

The businessman cleared his throat loudly and threw him a significant look. Romano glared back, but he stopped growling and strangling his pillow. "What the hell are you staring at?"

The man shook his head before turning back to his magazine. Relaxing as much as he could, Romano leaned against the abused pillow again and stared out at the expanse of brilliant blue. Veneziano would have made some drippy comment about it being the same color as Germany's eyes, he was sure. His stomach roiled. _Damn it, they're not even __here__ and they're making me ill!_

* * *

Ten minutes later, Romano was forced to admit that his brother and Germany's relationship wasn't the cause of his continued sickness. He had no idea why he was so nauseous, as he didn't get motion sick – the only time he'd thrown up on an airplane was the flight to London after that disastrous world meeting a few years ago when half of the nations got food poisoning, and in his defense, he'd been triggered by Switzerland, who had vomited first. In Romano's lap. The blond had been lucky Romano was busy heaving his guts, or he would have shot him with his own gun.

Feeling rather miserable, Romano braced his knees against the seat in front, burrowed into his jacket, and rubbed his sore eyes. This was definitely Spain's fault. He hadn't felt sick at all before reading his shitty poetry. He'd have to chew him out for that when he came in through the back door so he wouldn't mess up Spain's nice clean floors. They'd probably still be covered in suds when he arrived. Spain had always been terrible at housework. If he didn't have Romano around to remind him, he would do idiotic things like wash his colored clothes with straight bleach or forget to dust for six weeks and then wonder why he kept sneezing.

Romano kneaded his forehead – he had _such_ a headache – and tried to recall the last time he'd felt this crappy for no reason. He wasn't sick that often as long there hadn't been some sort of outbreak in his country, but he had picked up the flu when he was a child, in the middle of summer, when absolutely no one else was ill. Even Spain hadn't been able to explain that one. Closing his eyes, Romano dug into his memories until he could remember exactly what happened.

Spain had wandered into the kitchen one warm evening, whistling a jaunty little tune, only to find his charge just sitting in the middle of the floor.

"Romano?" he'd said, crouching down in front of him. "What are you doing?"

"Go away," Romano had mumbled around his thumb. He was hot and queasy and sore and Spain's presence wasn't helping. It wasn't like Spain would do anything about it, either. Austria had never paid any attention to him when he was sick, and he certainly didn't expect _this_ idiot to.

"Take your thumb out of your mouth, okay? I can't understand you."

"I _said_ go away!"

Spain frowned – such a weird expression, on his face – and touched Romano's cheek. "I think you have a fever."

"Do not."

"Come on." Ignoring his protests, Spain scooped him into his arms and stood. "You're going to bed."

"Hey!" Romano screeched. He hammered ineffectually against Spain's shoulders with his tiny fists. "Put me down, you big jerk! I'm not a freaking sack of potatoes! Don't _manhandle_ me!"

Then he broke off into a fit of rough, painful coughs that caused his entire body to shake violently. Spain made soft hushing noises and rubbed his back until he stopped. "Poor thing, why didn't you tell me you didn't feel well?"

"What do you care? Let go!"

Spain carried him upstairs anyway. "You ought to get some sleep," he mused, drowning out the complaints and profanity originating from somewhere around his left shoulder. "I think I have something for your fever. I'll have to look, though, I'm not sure if it's suitable for someone your size. Do you have to use the toilet first? I don't want you to have another accident…"

Turning bright red, Romano slugged him in the arm. Spain reacted as if he'd been struck with a feather – that is to say, he didn't even notice as he tucked him into bed, smoothed his hair, and kissed him on the forehead (to which Romano hit him again). "I'm not a baby! I don't wet myself anymore, you bastard!"

"If you say so… fine, then, I'm keeping the turtles in your bathroom. Try to rest, all right? I'll be back in a few minutes."

"You're keeping fucking _what_ in my bathroom?" Romano shrieked, but Spain had already gone out to look for medicine. "You'd better be joking, damn it!" He immediately kicked off the covers and went storming over to the bathroom, yanking open the door.

Spain hadn't been joking – at least, not entirely, because there was only one turtle in the room. It was swimming around the tub like it owned the place. Romano frowned down at it. "Don't think you're staying permanently!" he declared. "As soon as I feel better, you're going in the toilet!"

The turtle blinked its beady little eyes at him.

"And don't try to look cute, either!"

"I'm not _trying_," the turtle informed him stiffly.

Romano jabbed at finger at it. "That's it! You're gonna have to find a new place to live!" He yanked the plug out of the drain and watched the water swirl away triumphantly. "Go swim in Spain's bathtub or something."

"Well, I would, but there's an octopus in there."

Of course. Only Spain would think it was a good idea to keep an octopus in the house, the moron. "I don't care! This is my bathroom and I'm not sharing with a turtle!"

"Very well," the turtle huffed. Romano tilted his head to the side – was it his imagination, or was that thing getting _bigger_? "But I'm reporting you to management. This is a grievous lack of hospitality." Yes, the turtle was definitely expanding. It had started out no larger than Romano's hand and was now nearly the size of the bathtub.

When the turtle's shell got so massive it actually broke the tub, Romano stumbled back and held up his hands. "H-hey, wait! Stop that! Spain'll get mad!"

"I'm afraid I can't," said the turtle. It was almost Romano's height and showed no signs of slowing down. And something weird was happening – the entire house seemed to be becoming _part_ of the turtle, like the laws of reality had gone a bit screwy. Romano glanced down and noticed he was actually perched on the giant animal instead of the tiled floor. "Take your shoes off, if you please – since the ground's disappeared, you're standing on top of me, and I don't want marks on my shell."

"You – you – fine, but don't you dare leave turtle poop anywhere! I just swept downstairs!" He kicked off his shoes and sat down to sulk. "So if the floor's gone, what are you standing on, then?"

"Well," replied the turtle, "another turtle, of course."

The turtle proceeded to get bigger and bigger and bigger until it was impossibly huge. When there was no longer anything but stars overhead, Romano crawled to the edge of the shell and peered over – Spain's house was gone, _Spain_ was gone, the Earth was gone, and it was just turtles on top of turtles all the way down.

* * *

"We are now arriving in Madrid-Barajas International Airport. The local time is 17:22. Please secure all belongings, fold up your trays, return your seats to the upright position, and prepare for landing…"

Romano opened his eyes slowly, disoriented and barely awake. _That was weird… I'm pretty sure it didn't happen like __that__._ He straightened up enough that he wouldn't get another glare from the attendant and promptly regretted it as his head spun. Rather than helping, falling asleep had actually made him feel worse – he was shivering despite the heat in the cabin, his back sticky with sweat, and was much closer to vomiting than he'd been two hours ago. _Goddamn Spain and his drunken poetry and his fucking turtles. _

The plane landed without incident, though Romano got a few strange looks from people who couldn't mind their own business. What did it matter to them if he'd huddled in his seat with a white-knuckled grip on the armrests and muttered "_Padre nostro che sei nei cieli, sia santificato il tuo nome_…" until they came to a full stop? Everyone was so nosy these days. They were all just lucky he hadn't puked everywhere from the jolt when the wheels hit the runway.

"Have a nice day!" A pretty flight attendant chirped at Romano on his way out. He tried to smile at her, but judging by her expression he hadn't succeeded. Oh well, it didn't really matter – what did was finding the restroom before everybody exiting the plane discovered what he'd had for dinner last night. Since he hadn't brought anything with him, he bypassed the baggage claim and shoved his way through a bunch of people chattering in rapid English to get to the bathroom, which was blissfully quiet. Whether it was actually empty or not, he didn't bother to check, just leaned over the closest sink and started gagging.

Nothing happened. Romano retched as hard as he could a few times, until he was shaking with the effort of trying to force up the mess churning around in his stomach. There wasn't anything more horrible than feeling nauseous enough to vomit but being unable to. One last desperate heave and he gave up, coughing and clutching the sink to support himself. He looked even worse than he had this morning, since now instead of just being rather pale, he was chalk-white and covered in a sheen of sweat. At this rate, he would walk into Spain's house and the man would take one glance at him and whisk him straight to bed. That didn't sound so bad, actually. He wanted nothing more than to curl up under a pile of blankets and sleep someplace where he wouldn't have to listen to his brother and Germany banging in the next room.

The door banged open and in wandered a few men, laughing uproariously. Romano hastily wet a paper towel, swiped it over his face, tossed it in the trash, and scampered out of there before the echo aggravated his already-unbearable headache. He didn't know if he wanted to throw up or just start crying instead.

Romano managed to score both a cab out to Spain's house _and_ a driver who didn't get pissed off the first four times he made him pull over so he could dry heave on the side of the road. If the airplane had jostled his unsteady stomach, the movement of the car was rearranging his entire digestive system – he was now experiencing the worst sort of nausea, the kind that twisted up from his stomach to his chest and throat and yanked mercilessly at the back of his tongue. He still couldn't actually throw up. Breaking down and sobbing was beginning to look like an excellent prospect.

"You still alive back there?" the driver called gruffly.

"Yes," Romano muttered. The man didn't sound like he really cared. Maybe he was just making sure his passenger hadn't died along the way, as there was probably loads of paperwork involved if that happened.

Romano's stomach lurched when the car hit a pothole, but he didn't move, knowing it wouldn't come to anything. He hadn't been so queasy since that food-poisoning incident. At least then he'd been able to guilt Switzerland into giving him enough Dramamine to sleep for the rest of the trip – as had everyone else, in fact. The two of them had set off an impressive chain reaction affecting four random passengers, Greece, Iceland, Estonia, Poland, and, oddly enough, Sweden, who hadn't eaten the tainted meat (unlike most of the other nations) and didn't seem like the sort of guy who would be squeamish. The crew certainly earned their paychecks on that flight. Switzerland had provided the Dramamine just so everyone else would stop throwing up before they made _him_ sick again, which led to inquiries about why he was carrying three boxes of the stuff and jokes concerning his occupation as a 'street pharmacist'. Given the amount of medication changing hands, Romano was amazed they'd all gotten off the plane without being immediately arrested on drug trafficking charges.

**Hey, what time are you going to get here?** Spain suddenly texted.

**Fifteen minutes or so. Make sure you dry the floor so I don't slip and break my neck.** Romano sent the message, closed his phone, and curled into a little ball of misery to wait out the rest of the ride.

* * *

It was close to dinnertime when Romano finally made his way around to the back of Spain's house, though the _last_ thing he wanted right now was to eat. The mere idea of food was enough to make him retch uselessly into the bushes for half a minute before stumbling up the steps and opening the door.

"Romano, is that you?"

"No," Romano mumbled, "it's your fairy fucking godmother." He fought a glorious battle with the stuck zipper of his coat, swearing and pulling so hard that his fingers slipped and he somehow whacked himself in the face, then admitted defeat and just yanked it over his head. His hair hadn't been combed today anyway. Feeling too wretched to care about what a sorry sight he must be, he wandered toward the kitchen and pushed the door open.

As soon as he entered the room, he noticed three things:

One, there were wet streaks all over the kitchen floor. Obviously, Spain hadn't understood that mopping was pointless if he was going to walk all over in his street shoes while it was still drying.

Two, Spain was wearing an apron. A frilly, lacy, _pink_ apron. This apron should not have looked that good on him.

Three, the mixed scent of tomatoes, pasta, basil, and garlic – typically so pleasant – was overpowering. When Romano inhaled, the smell almost physically assaulted him.

That was what did it. He gagged, involuntarily this time, and slapped a hand over his watering mouth. Spain turned around at the sound. "Are you okay?" he asked, usual brilliant smile dimming down to something a bit less blinding. Romano didn't hear him. His brain was screaming at him to fucking _move_, the sink (half-filled with dishes, still better than the floor) was ten steps away, but his legs wouldn't listen. He couldn't move a muscle except to swallow repeatedly in a vain attempt to force his stomach back to where it should be.

_Shit, shit, shit_… Figures, now that he _was_ going to throw up, he really didn't want to. Relief from the incessant nausea might have been worth the pain of expelling his last meal in the most violent, revolting way possible; however, he had _not_ intended to do it in front of Spain.

Romano's lungs began complaining next, since he hadn't taken a breath since he'd walked into the room. Opening his mouth would be a very bad idea. He had no choice but to inhale through his nose again.

That was what _really_ did it.

He doubled over, retching, as the contents of his stomach evacuated his body without so much as a 'goodbye'. Something hot and sour – he didn't want to think about what, exactly, it was – burnt its way up his esophagus and out of his mouth, splattering against the terracotta.

"Shit, Romano!" Spain yelped. Romano was too busy heaving yesterday's dinner (right, it had been the leftover pizza Veneziano made, and he was afraid to open his eyes in case he recognized anything) onto the floor to care about whatever the other man's problem was. His throat felt like it was about to crack open from the repeated retching, he couldn't breathe, and he was becoming disturbingly lightheaded, even as the vomiting tapered off into wet, hacking coughs.

He didn't know if he had actually blacked out for an instant or just couldn't keep up with events, but one moment he was hunched over, choking on saliva and stomach acid; the next, Spain had an arm around his waist and was settling him into a chair. "It's all right," he was saying, "just relax, okay? It's all right. Breathe, baby, it's okay." The words sounded distant and fuzzy. Romano blinked over and over, trying to clear the blur from his eyes, and swallowed convulsively. Something soft and cool and damp was swiped over his mouth and chin, cleaning the mess from his face.

Another few moments swirled away, and then Spain pulled another chair close and sat down, setting the trash can between them and stroking Romano's forehead. "You really know how to make an entrance. Feel better now?"

Romano promptly threw up again.

"Oh," Spain said, "I guess not, then."

* * *

This was officially worse than the food-poisoning episode. That had been unpleasant yet bearable, and it almost became funny when Finland started shouting at the insufferably obnoxious subsection of disgruntled passengers. There was something amusing about watching such a small, delicate-looking guy intimidate a bunch of beefy Mafioso-types into sitting down and shutting the hell up, because, yes, some people were sick, but it wasn't their problem and if they didn't stop bitching about it ruining the flight he'd force-feed them their own teeth. Everyone knew who was really the 'wife' in _his_ relationship.

No, this just plain _sucked_. After fifteen minutes of either vomiting into the receptacle Spain had had the foresight to provide, or curling up in his seat and praying for death, Romano wanted to file a complaint. His sinuses were burning – at some point, his nose had become an alternate method of exit, which was really not acceptable in any way – his throat hurt, his head throbbed, and he was both shivering uncontrollably and soaked in sweat. He felt so _awful_ that the only reason he hadn't started bawling yet was that he didn't need to degrade himself any more today.

On the upside, it seemed like he'd finally run out of anything to bring up. His stomach had settled, at least temporarily, enough so Spain could coax him into having a bit of water. "Drink slowly," he said, holding out the glass. Romano took it, fingers slipping on the condensation, then hesitated.

"I don't know…"

Spain wiped his forehead with the wet cloth again. "You don't _have_ to drink it. But you might be a little dehydrated, and I think it'd be better if you actually have something in your stomach to throw up instead of just dry-heaving."

He had a point, repulsive as it was. Romano was pretty sure his stomach lining looked like it had been through a paper shredder by now. He took a few small sips of the water – it soothed his raw throat, though it didn't help the nausea since everything tasted like regurgitated pizza. When the liquid failed to make the expected return trip, he drank a bit more. Spain looked pleased. "You're not quite so pale – or green – anymore. Want to go upstairs and lay down for a while?"

Laying down sounded _heavenly_. Holding his head up and his eyes open had become a chore over the last hour. "I don't know," Romano mumbled again, setting the half-empty glass on the table, "I'm still nauseous."

"I'll get you a bucket just in case, okay?" Now that Romano wasn't in immediate danger of passing out in a pool of his own vomit, Spain was quickly regaining his cheer. "You'll feel better after you get some sleep – and if not, I'll find a way to cure you!"

"You couldn't cure a ham," Romano muttered, but he let Spain loop an arm around his back, pull him to his feet, and steer him out of the room, being sure to maneuver around the remains of Romano's dinner. "You should – you should clean that up," he got out around a yawn, "before it eats through the floor."

Spain laughed. "And I just mopped, too." He didn't sound like this as anything more than being slightly unfortunate, but Romano still felt guilty– and then got mad at himself for feeling that way. It wasn't like it was _his fault_. He hadn't come in with the intention of throwing up on the floor. _Damn it, why do I even care?_

While he was silently berating himself, Spain had half-walked, half-dragged him upstairs. Now he gently pushed him to sit on the bed and tugged at Romano's braces. "Let's get you out of these clothes. You're all sweaty."

Romano feebly batted his hands away. "No," he said, just to be contrary, "I want to sleep." Spain let go and he curled up on the mattress, burying his face into a pillow that was both blissfully fluffy and hadn't come out of a plastic wrapper thirty seconds before being used.

"All right." It was quiet for a minute as Spain bustled around, first finding a bucket and placing it next to the bed, then taking Romano's temperature (which was high, but not alarmingly so), and finally draping a quilt over him. "Get some sleep. Just aim for the bucket if you feel sick again." He paused for a moment. "Oh, and try not to wet the bed."

Romano's eyebrow twitched. Spain couldn't see it and thus had no warning that this was not a _remotely_ safe topic of conversation. _I just fucking __knew__ he'd bring that up._ "What the hell is that all about?"

"Well, you're a very deep sleeper when you're sick. And even when you're healthy, sometimes you –"

Romano balled up his fist and swung at where he estimated Spain's head was. He missed. He was also weak as a kitten and probably couldn't have bruised an apple in this state, but it was the thought that counted. Spain merely pushed his arm back down to the bed and said, "I'm only teasing, Romano. Try to sleep now, okay?"

"Quit talking so I _can_ sleep," Romano grumbled. He heard Spain laugh again, felt him press his lips to the side of his head, then felt the mattress shift. Spain was getting up. He was _leaving_.

For a moment, blind panic superseded nausea and dizziness and pain. Romano did not want to be alone right now. He hated the way his voice quivered when he said, "Where are you going?", but if it made Spain stick around, he'd get over it.

"To shut off the stove," Spain replied, sounding slightly perplexed. "And clean up a bit. Why, you want me to stay?"

"No!" Romano snapped. He pressed his face further into the pillow. _Stop being so needy,_ he scolded himself, _you're not going to die without him._ "No, just… damn it. I'm just cold. Go away."

"Do you want another blanket?"

_I want you,_ some traitorous, pathetic little corner of Romano's brain wailed. "No. Leave me alone!"

Spain got another blanket anyway and tucked it around him, pet his hair like Romano was some kind of puppy, and quietly left the room. Romano listened to his footsteps thump down the stairs, growing quieter and quieter until they were inaudible, then punched the mattress as hard as he could. _Shit._

* * *

Seven and a half minutes elapsed between Spain exiting and reentering the room. Romano knew this because he'd been watching the little blue clock on the nightstand ever since he'd left. The second hand was permanently trapped on the eight, but it twitched sixty times a minute and all he had to do was count the jerks to know how many seconds had gone by. T_his is what passes for entertainment in my life_, he'd thought after four minutes._ I am never getting sick again._

When Spain finally came clomping back upstairs, Romano rolled onto his side and turned his face into the pillow so he wouldn't think he'd had been waiting for him. The movement made his stomach flip over and creep up into his throat again. _Oh, damn it, you've got to be kidding me!_ Just a moment ago he'd been feeling better. He stopped moving immediately and took slow, shallow breaths.

"Romano?" Spain whispered, slipping around to the side of the bed and leaning over to see the other nation's face. "Are you still awake?"

Romano swallowed. "Mhm," he mumbled, shivering as he broke into a cold sweat.

"You're turning green again."

"No shit," Romano choked out. Sometimes, Spain was completely useless – cute, but useless. He pressed his knuckles to his lips and managed to say, "If you don't want your quilt to have a new pattern you need to give me that bucket _now_ –" before gagging.

Despite his adorable uselessness, Spain had _extraordinary_ reflexes. In the space of about two seconds, he tossed the blankets off Romano, grabbed him by his braces, yanked him upright, and shoved the bucket under his mouth the same instant he retched. It was impressive. Romano didn't get the chance to appreciate this feat, as he was preoccupied with heaving a quarter of a glass of water and a thin, sour dribble of bile into the pail. "It's all right," Spain said, having taken up his earlier litany, "it's okay. Just get it all up, you'll feel better." Once this bout of sickness was over, he wiped Romano's face clean again and got him some more water (which went untouched) and tucked him back in.

For his part, Romano just wanted him to go away for a little while. He'd hit the point where there was nothing to do except either laugh at his misfortune or start crying, and he felt entitled to a bit of a hysterical breakdown, but his battered pride was insisting that he wait until Spain left. He curled into a little ball under the quilt and squeezed his burning eyes shut.

"Do you need anything else?"

"No." _I need you to leave already! _Romano had never liked crying in front of anyone. He was weak enough already.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! Go away!" Romano replied, hoping Spain hadn't noticed the way his voice caught on the last syllable.

"Okay, okay, I'm going," Spain said placatingly. He brushed Romano's hair off his forehead, leaned down, and kissed him on the cheek. "Get some rest," he murmured, lips soft against his fevered skin. "I love you."

Romano burst into tears.

"What? What did I do?" Sounding frantic, Spain swung around to the other side of the bed and climbed in next to him. Romano buried his face in his sleeve, knowing perfectly well that his dignity had fled the continent but trying to choke back his sobs anyway. "Romano, what's wrong?"

"This is all your fault!" Romano wailed. Spain made a noise like a cat being strangled. "Your stupid poetry… and your damn _turtles_!"

"…what turtles?"

Sniffling, Romano opened his mouth, preparing to tell him that he would have been fine if it wasn't for the gigantic world-eating turtle he'd left in the tub – then realized exactly how ridiculous that came off and changed his mind. That hadn't even _happened_, except at the point where Romano's memory slipped into a dream. In fact, now that he thought about it, he had just fallen asleep right after Spain put him to bed, despite insisting that he wasn't tired _or_ sick. When he'd woken up later, horribly sick to his stomach (and wet, but he would deny that until his dying day), and vomited all over his bed, Spain had come rushing in to clean him up. Then he had stayed with him for the rest of the night, cuddling the miserable little boy in his lap until he dozed off again.

Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Spain had taken good care of him whenever he was sick, and right now, Romano wanted to be coddled, self-respect be damned. He let Spain pull him close, let him wind his arms around his waist and rub his back and whisper soothing nonsense into his hair, and let himself cling and press close until they were practically one person. And if he whispered _I love you too, you bloody idiot_, the words were muffled in the soft fabric of Spain's shirt and went unheard, just as he'd hoped they would be.

* * *

The other half of this fic will be posted soon. :)

In the meantime, reviews are _loved_.


	2. Two

**Turtles and (Drunken) Poetry**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Hetalia_ and I'm not making money off of this because no one would pay for it. :)

**Warnings: **Somewhat graphic descriptions of illness that might bother the squeamish.

**Pairing(s): **Spain/Romano mainly, sprinkled with Germany/Veneziano and random references to other pairings.

**Notes: **De-anoning from the kink meme - the request was _Can I please have something about throwing up? Doesn't have to be necessarily gory, but something. Like... somebody's upchucking because of a cold, a nightmare._

This actually has surprisingly little to do with turtles and poetry, drunken or otherwise.

* * *

Sometime during the night, Romano's temperature spiked up to levels that might have been dangerous, were he actually human. Since he _wasn't_ actually human, he merely woke up screaming, half-delirious, under the impression that the white-hot pain snaking down his spine was the result of some mad axe murderer burying a hatchet into the back of his neck after stabbing Spain to death. His vision was hazy and peppered with shifting dark spots, but he could still see the outline of someone leaning over him. Romano shrieked in sheer panic – _ohgodIdon'twanttodieIdon'twanttodieIdon'twanttodie!_ – and, weakened though he was from illness, he managed to put enough force behind his swing to catch his unsuspecting assailant in the face.

"Ow!" The 'murderer' rocked back, rubbing his mouth. Romano took this opportunity to try to punch him again, but he couldn't reach far enough without sitting up, and his neck and back hurt so badly that that was not an option. "It's okay, Romano, I'm not going to hurt you!"

Romano automatically filed that statement into the 'Bullshit' column. It was just the sort of thing an axe murderer would say to lure him into a false sense of security. Well, that could work the other way around, too. He pretended to relax, dropping his arm and half-closing his eyes… and then, when The Axe Murderer got up onto his knees and conveniently left himself open to the most vile attack known to man and nation-kind alike, Romano pulled back a leg and kicked him in the groin.

With a distinctly unmanly screech, his attacker collapsed sideways, right off the bed, and Romano reached over to the other side and groped around wildly. There was no Spain lying where he was supposed to be lying, mouth wide open and snoring his head off. Worse, Romano felt damp and sticky – what if Spain really _had_ been brutally murdered and Romano was covered in his blood? And there was something else missing, too, something important, something he couldn't quite put his finger on…

There was a groan from the floor. "Romano… that was really uncute…"

"I don't care!" Romano rasped, his sore throat burning with the effort. "What did you do with Spain?"

"What?" Whimpering slightly in pain, The Axe Murderer hauled himself back onto the mattress, but stayed far enough away that he wasn't in kicking range. "Romano, it's me! It's okay. You just had a nightmare."

Romano squinted into the darkness. "Shut up! I swear, if you killed Spain and… and dismembered his body and put the pieces in the freezer, I'll kill you!"

The Axe Murderer actually _laughed_, but it was a soft, gentle laugh rather than the crazy hyena cackle he'd expected. "No, I didn't chop myself up and put myself in the freezer. I'm going to turn on the light, okay?" Without waiting for a response, he reached for the lamp on Spain's nightstand.

Romano slammed his eyes closed just in time to avoid being brutally blinded by the sudden onslaught of brightness. The light that still filtered through his eyelids did nothing for his headache, though, and when his headache worsened, his stomach began sending messages of impending mutiny again. "Turn it off," he moaned. "It hurts."

"I know. Open your eyes for just a moment, though. It's only me." A warm, callused hand touched his forehead, and, despite himself, Romano leaned into the touch. Now that he was coming down off the adrenaline high, he found that he was terribly cold and ached all over. "Oh, Romano, you poor baby – you're _burning_, no wonder you're confused. Open your eyes, all right?"

Romano opened his eyes.

The man leaning over him was inherently familiar – brown hair, bright green eyes, tanned, barely-visible scar next to his left eyebrow from where he'd been hit with a cracked beer bottle during a drunken bar fight with Prussia and France six weeks ago. Romano's fevered brain instantly posited a scenario wherein The Axe Murderer killed Spain and then wore his skin like some kind of sick Halloween costume, but by now, he'd woken up a bit more and was coherent enough to come to the conclusion that this, while not impossible, was extremely unlikely. Besides, no axe-wielding psychopath could properly replicate Spain's silly grin. "Smile," Romano ordered.

"Huh?" The Axe Murderer/Possibly Spain blinked, then promptly broke into one of Spain's trademark smiles. The effect was only slightly dampened by the smear of blood sweeping from one corner of his mouth across his cheek. "You're so _cute_, Romano," he cooed, "even though you're all sweaty and gross. You should really change out of those clothes."

_Okay, definitely Spain._ Romano allowed himself to relax, though only slightly – the dim light from the lamp threw shadows into every corner of the room, shadows that seemed to twitch the moment he took his eyes off of them. In the back of his mind, he realized that he was most likely delusional from the fever, but the rest of his brain couldn't catch up quite yet. Spain was dabbing his forehead with a wet cloth again, yammering cheerfully on about the time he'd had Legionnaires' Disease and kept hallucinating that he was a pickle trapped in a jar. Romano ignored him. He was nauseated and dizzy and his head felt like it was about to float right off his shoulders, which, given how badly it hurt, might have been welcomed at this point. "Oh, shut _up_," he finally muttered when Spain reached the part of his tale where a nurse strongly resembling Belarus came in to give him a sponge bath. "You babble more than my brother sometimes."

Along came the very sudden realization of what else was missing from the room.

Romano snagged Spain by the collar, midsentence, and tugged him down to eye level. "Where's Veneziano?" he demanded.

Spain blinked. Up close, his eyes were the color of basil leaves – not that Romano really wanted to be thinking about basil after what had transpired earlier, but the thought meandered across his mind anyway. "What? He's probably still at your house."

"I want to see him."

"Romano, it's two-forty in the morning. You should go back to sleep, and he can come over later, okay?"

Romano shook his head frantically, tightening his grip on Spain's collar so the other man couldn't move. "I want to see him," he insisted. If Veneziano wasn't in arm's reach, he could be off getting into trouble somewhere and Romano was too sick to bail him out right now. "I _have_ to. What if something happens to him?"

"Romano, Romano… shh." Spain stroked his hair, his forehead, his cheek. "It's just the fever talking. He's fine, I'm sure. If you're here, I bet he's with Germany."

Unbeknownst to Spain, that was the absolute least reassuring thing he could have come up with. Romano froze for a moment, his imagination churning out all sorts of possibilities, each more horrifying than the last – and then he let go of Spain's shirt and struggled into a sitting position, ignoring the pain. "What are you doing?" Spain asked, putting a hand on his chest in order to keep him from moving any further. "You really shouldn't be up, Romano. I can take you to the bathroom if you need to go, but other than that you have to stay in bed."

Coughing violently, Romano waited until the room stopped tilting before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Not letting that bastard _near_ him," he mumbled, blinking away the black blobs that were crowding out his vision once more. "He is _not_ getting to my brother again…"

Spain grabbed him around the waist right as he made to stand up, which was a good thing, because his knees promptly buckled and he would have been kissing the floor if Spain hadn't yanked him back onto the bed. "Lay down," he said firmly, pressing Romano's shoulders against the mattress. "It's all right, I promise. You need to stay in bed."

"Let me go!" Romano struggled briefly, but his energy reserves had been depleted by his attacking of 'The Axe Murderer', and within a minute he'd exhausted himself. "Spain, _please_, I have to see him, I have to make sure he's okay, I can't leave him alone with _Germany_…"

"Romano, _relax_. Germany isn't going to hurt him."

Romano shook his head again, wondering why Spain wasn't understanding. "He _has_ hurt him, and Veneziano's too much of an idiot to learn from his mistakes, he'll just stay with him until that bastard does something else, and I have to be there, I don't want him to leave me – let me go, I have to see him!"

"Okay, okay, stop." Spain didn't release him, but he did lay down in order to restrain him more comfortably, and Romano was still too cold to resist the invitation of a warm body to curl up with. "You're not thinking straight right now, baby. Nothing's going to happen to Veneziano. Germany gets all mushy around him, so I don't think he'll do anything to him, either."

"He _has_," Romano whispered, because he'd never really forgotten his little brother's dead-eyed look after Germany had had the entire Acqui Division executed. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his face into Spain's neck.

Spain ran his fingers through Romano's sweat-dampened hair, carefully avoiding that one errant curl. "We've all done things we're not proud of," he said quietly, "but you've got to let it _go_, Romano. Hating him isn't going to change the way your brother feels. Besides, when _you're_ not running around keeping Veneziano out of trouble, Germany is, and he wouldn't do that if he didn't care about him, right?"

Not wanting to consider the possibility that Germany was any less harmful than his imaginary Axe Murderer, Romano pretended not to have heard. Even if Spain was, for once, making sense. Maybe that was a product of the fever, too – it certainly didn't happen often. "Let go," he said.

Spain didn't. Romano hadn't expected him to. "I really think you should just go back to sleep, and you can call Veneziano in the morning if you want." He shifted back a little and felt Romano's forehead again. "Your temperature's still high… but I think you're over the worst of this. You'll probably feel better soon." He started to stroke Romano's hair again, which might have put him right to sleep if he hadn't stopped abruptly. "Hey, wait a minute… why do you think he's going to leave you?"

"I didn't say that."

"Yes you did, just a second ago. Romano, you're worrying about silly things again."

Romano punched him in the shoulder. He hadn't really _planned_ to hit him, but he was already upset and frustrated and having Spain dismiss his concerns so easily put him over the edge. He hit him a second time for good measure (and because Spain didn't look particularly shocked or injured), then rolled over so he wasn't facing him anymore. "Shut up! Just… shut up."

"Romano…" Spain draped an arm over his waist and nuzzled the back of his neck. "What I meant was, you don't have to worry about it because it's not going to happen. You're important to Veneziano – you get him out of trouble by screaming at the right people, you yell at France when he touches him in inappropriate places, you keep him from blowing himself up with fireworks like he almost did on New Year's Eve that one time.. and, when you're not there, Germany does that stuff for you, so he's actually _helping_ you!"

Of all Spain's talents, Romano found the one where he made him feel worse just by opening his mouth to be the most aggravating. "Great," he muttered, "so that bastard can do everything I used to along with screwing him on the kitchen counters. That's just fucking wonderful."

"_And_," Spain poked him in the back of the head, "you're his big brother. _You_, not Germany. He loves you. Isn't that enough?"

It wasn't the same, hearing it from someone who _wasn't_ Veneziano, but Romano was well past the point where he could do anything more strenuous than lift a spoon, and he was so tired he couldn't keep his eyes focused. "I still want to see him," he whispered.

Spain kissed the top of his head. "I'm sure if you call him tomorrow morning and tell him you're sick, he'll come," he said. "I think your fever's gone down, a bit. Go back to sleep."

Sleep looked like a very inviting prospect. Romano didn't have the strength to fight it anymore – he curled an arm under his head and dozed off, wrapped in Spain's arms, and when morning rolled around their whole conversation was shrouded in a feverish haze and he could hardly remember it at all.

* * *

Romano woke, sweat-soaked, shivering from the chill brought on by fever, every single muscle he possessed aching. His mouth tasted like something small and furry had crawled inside and then croaked. And, as if that weren't enough, he was immediately plagued by the now-familiar sensation of imminent gastric rebellion. At least he'd slept in a _bed_ this time.

When he fell and nearly brained himself on the nightstand in his mad scramble to untangle himself from Spain and climb off the mattress, he decided that yesterday morning hadn't really been so bad after all.

Stomach lurching, Romano stumbled into the bathroom, fumbled for the light, decided visibility wasn't all that important, and proceeded to choke up a mouthful of something he could not identify whatsoever into the sink. That, thankfully, seemed to be all his body wanted for now, and the queasiness faded to a manageable level.

"Fuck," he muttered feelingly. Then he plucked his toothbrush from the holder on the counter, applied a generous glob of Spain's toothpaste, and vigorously attacked the disgusting film coating his teeth.

Between reloading his brush with as much paste as he could use without getting fluoride poisoning and trying not to gag every time he accidentally poked too far back on his tongue, Romano wondered what kind of bizarre fever dream he'd been having last night. He dimly recalled thinking he'd been attacked by a murderer… who turned out to be Spain… and he remembered being worried about his brother for some reason… and there'd been something about France… molesting fireworks? Shaking his head – the stuff his subconscious churned out when he was sick was unbelievable – he spit toothpaste foam into the basin one last time and rinsed out his finally clean mouth. He had forgotten how nice it was to not taste vomit all the time.

Raindrops were splattering against the bedroom windows when he wandered in, making his way towards the bed and shedding articles of clothing as he did so. Once he was down to just his underwear, he cocooned himself in blankets, turned his pillow over so he wouldn't be sleeping on the damp side, and resumed his former position as Spain's cuddle toy. The short excursion to the bathroom had worn him out. Romano yawned sleepily and nudged Spain until the man shifted over – he'd sweat through his clothes and the sheets where he had lain felt gross. The tiny part of his mind that he reluctantly allowed to acknowledge the validity of everything that pissed him off was grateful he hadn't actually wet the bed, since his pain-in-the-ass boyfriend would never have stopped bringing it up at inappropriate times if he had. _Probably dehydrated,_ he thought, swiping his tongue over dry, cracked lips,_ should do something about that… later._

Spain snuffled, mumbled aimlessly in Spanish, and curled an arm around the overheated body next to his own. Romano caught his name and what sounded like a marriage proposal among the gibberish, but was too exhausted to react beyond yawning, "Shut up, idiot."

He drifted for a while. The rain stopped and started and stopped _ad infinitum_ like a leaky faucet. Around the time the clock downstairs chimed eight, Romano felt Spain touch his forehead, then roll off the bed. Since he wasn't as pathetically fragile as he'd been last night, he turned onto his stomach and stole Spain's pillow instead of panicking when the other nation didn't return.

At some point, he actually fell asleep, and when he woke again it was to the muffled sound of his phone ringing rather than overwhelming nausea. "Damn it," he groaned, realizing that his pants were too far away to be reached without getting up. "Who's calling me _this_ early?"

Upon dragging himself out of bed and digging his phone out of his pocket, he discovered that it was actually eleven in the morning. He decided it was still too early for polite conversation and flipped the phone open without looking at the display. "What?"

"Good morning!"

Romano padded into the bathroom, shaking off the odd sense of relief that swamped him the moment he heard his brother's voice. "Hi. What do you want?"

"You sound _terrible_," Veneziano said, instead of answering the question like a normal person. His voice was so riddled with concern that Romano let it go. "Are you okay?"

There was an empty glass on the counter. Romano grabbed it, turned on the faucet, filled it up, and took a sip – _oh, __God__, I don't think water's ever tasted this good before._ "I'm fine."

"Spain said you were sick."

_Crap_. He hadn't planned to tell Veneziano how ill he'd been. There was no reason to make him fret, especially now that he was feeling marginally better. "When the hell were you talking to Spain?"

"A few hours ago. He called and said you'd gotten really sick last night and you were upset because I wasn't there. _Ve_, Romano, do you want me to come over?"

Romano downed the rest of the water, ignoring his complaining stomach. The suspicion that the 'fever dream' hadn't been a dream at all crept into his mind. _Shit, what did I say to Spain that worried him so much he called Veneziano? I don't need him to come here – well, I'd rather he be here than with the potato-fucker, but I don't __need__ him. I'm not five, I can handle being sick on my own. I'm not so weak that I need my little brother around all the time. I don't – oh, __fuck__ –_

It wasn't until he'd stopped dry-retching that he realized it was probably bad manners to throw up while on the phone with someone.

"That was gross, Romano," Veneziano said mildly. He didn't seem particularly affected by listening to his brother vomiting. Romano was a bit impressed – had their roles been reversed, he would be revisiting his last meal, since seeing or hearing someone get sick had that effect on him (which reminded him of that one god-awful flight, and he made a mental note to throw something pointy at Switzerland next time he saw him, gun or no gun).

"Sorry," he said, refilling the glass and forcing himself to drink much more slowly this time. "And no, you don't have to come over. I'm not that sick anymore."

"You just threw up."

"I drank too fast. _Really_, I'm okay, just tired and sore. I feel like I've been beaten up by Turkey."

Veneziano 'hmm'ed. "_Ve_… like Greece when he and Turkey argue during conferences and disappear and then Greece comes back dirty and covered in bruises?"

_All right, bad example_. Slightly amazed that his brother could be dense enough to think those two were ever _just_ fighting, he said, "No, not… forget it. I must have the flu or something, I'm throwing up things that aren't even _mine_."

Romano had already suspected he was on speakerphone, due to the clanking of spoon against bowl in the background that suggested his brother was cooking again, but the loud, cackling laughter that sounded a moment later confirmed it. "Here's a lesson for ya: spit, don't swallow!" he heard Prussia yell.

Before he could do more than pick up his toothbrush and contemplate its potential as a weapon, Veneziano chirped, "Oh, Prussia, you're back! Here, stir this!" – there was a confused squeaking noise from Prussia that Romano would have laughed at were he present – a door closed – and then came Veneziano's voice, much closer now, "Sorry, what was that?"

"Never mind," Romano grumbled. He jammed his brush back into the holder with great force and went to lay down again. "What's _he_ doing there?"

"He showed up this morning. He's not staying, though, he's going somewhere with France and Denmark. Germany and I were going to go on a picnic, but the weather's bad."

Romano made a face. _Sure, 'go on a picnic'… more like fuck behind a tree._

"What?"

"Nothing!" Damn it, he _had_ to start making sure he didn't think out loud.

"_Ve_, that part was going to come later," Veneziano said, sounding almost smug. Romano spluttered incoherently. _And everyone calls him __innocent__? _"We're staying in and watching movies instead. You can come if you're feeling better!"

Romano had the strangest feeling that he'd just been invited into his own home, but he disregarded it and snapped, "_Hell_ no. I'm not coming back until _he's_ gone."

"Who, Prussia?"

"No, that blond prick!"

"But, Romano… I thought we could all spend some time together and have fun... I think if you got to know him, you'd like Germany, he's so nice!"

"Damn it, I don't want to get to know him!"

"Why not?"

The words slipped out before he could really think about what he was saying. "Because I _fucking hate_ him! I've _always_ hated him! I don't know why you have to date the bastard! I wish he'd just fuck off and _leave us the hell alon_e!"

Veneziano was silent. Romano already regretted opening his mouth. He could easily picture the other nation's lost expression, that childlike brain of his trying to work out what Germany had done to his big brother to make him hate so deeply and whether or not that meant Romano hated him for his choice in partners, because Veneziano was sweet but not particularly _bright_, and guilt tightened around his abused stomach. "…I didn't mean that quite the way it sounded."

"Why?" Veneziano said in a small, hurt voice.

_Fuck!_ What was one supposed to _do_ when they had to convince their over-sensitive little brother that they didn't hate his boyfriend when they really, really did? For a moment, Romano wished he could ask someone – except the only set of brothers he was familiar with was America and Canada, and he knew for certain that they didn't care who the other dated. In fact, sometimes they dated the same people at the same time. Sometimes they _traded_. There was also the grapevine rumor that Norway and Iceland were actually related and didn't just refer to each other as brothers because they'd been close for so long, but Romano was unsure whether or not it was true and the nations involved weren't talking. Plus, if it was, it put a disturbing new spin on that whole Nordic clusterfuck. He suppressed a shudder at the implications. _Why is everyone I know so damn weird?_

"Look, I just – I don't –" He paused, massaged his forehead, and tried to gather his thoughts into something resembling coherency. _I don't think he's good enough for you. I'm afraid he'll hurt you again and you won't bounce back this time. If you leave me alone I don't know what I'd do without you._ "Why did it have to be _him_?" he finally got out, voice barely above a pained whisper.

There was a pause on the other end. "I don't know," Veneziano said, just as quietly. "I can't help who I fall in love with."

…_damn it all._ He _would_ come up with the one response Romano didn't have a ready-made retort for.

What was worse was that he had a point. Romano hadn't just woken up one morning and decided he was going to fall for Spain, it had been building since he was an awkward, gangly-limbed teenager and started dreaming of green eyes and long, callused fingers and burning heat. Of all the people he'd ever thought of romantically, he'd never totally believed he could love a man who was a basket case at the best of times until it happened.

_And_, the little part of his mind that he liked to ignore whispered, _why __wouldn't__ Veneziano like Germany? He's smart, he's strong, he's nicer to him than __you__ are…_

_Shut up!_

_Well, it's true. How much of an awful person are you, that you don't want your brother to be happy?_

_But I – good Lord, I'm arguing with myself. I think that's the first sign of insanity._

He dragged himself back to reality with some effort, hearing Veneziano continue speaking. "– don't understand, he's been nothing but wonderful to me, but if you don't – _ve_, Romano, if you're really that against it, I don't want you to be miserable…" He trailed off, then said, so softly Romano almost didn't hear, "Do you want us to break up?"

"No!" Romano yelped, surprising even himself.

"But –"

"I didn't say I wanted you to break up, idiot! I said I hate him, there's a difference!"

Veneziano was quiet again. If Romano had to put a name to this new pause, it would be 'absolutely confounded'. Truth be told, he wasn't quite sure why he'd said what he did – maybe because, despite his utter loathing of the German bastard, something about imagining them broken up was just wrong. He'd been Veneziano's huge blond shadow for decades now. Romano might have wanted Germany to take a long walk off a short pier, but making Veneziano dump him was going a little too far. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut against the headache that was attempting to reach new, painful heights.

"Now I _really_ don't understand. Maybe you should get some more sleep, Romano."

"I don't need – _God_, would you just shut up for a second and let me think?" His skull felt like it was full of needles. Groaning faintly, Romano curled up on his side, switching his phone to the other ear, and for the first time in his life he considered just being brutally honest. _What's the worst that could happen? Aside from sounding completely needy and pathetic and selfish…_ _fuck!_ He pummeled his pillow a few times. _Why does this shit always happen to me?_

"Are you still there?" Veneziano piped timidly.

"I just don't want you to get hurt, okay?" Romano yelled. "You're my little brother, and I'm supposed to _protect_ you, but you're always with that asshole and you don't even _care_ about the shit he's done to you – and – and I end up fucking _worrying_ all the time because you don't have enough sense to – what the hell am I supposed to do if something happens to you? I _don't want to be alone!"_

Romano's chest was heaving by the time he'd finished his short but impassioned rant. He took in a few much-needed gulps of air and swiped a hand across his eyes, cringing when it came away wet.

"Ohhhhhh," his brother said, drawing out the word for longer than was strictly necessary, "I get it."

_I'm glad one of us does._

"I still love you, Romano!"

Romano's train of thought hit a moose on the rails. "What?" He was pretty sure he hadn't said anything about feeling unloved.

"And I'm not going to go anywhere. You're my brother and I love you and we're going to be best friends forever, _ve_!"

"Is your brain leaking? What the _hell_ are you babbling about? Because I was talking about your idiot boytoy."

"Oh, Romano… this isn't about Germany at all, really. You're scared I'm going to leave you."

Romano blinked, shook his head, opened his mouth – and then realized that he couldn't say anything in reply. Veneziano might act like an idiot, but he was dangerously perceptive when he put his mind to it, and somehow he'd waded through the mess of invectives and complaints Romano had spat and fished out what he was actually trying to say. "I…"

"It's okay. I understand – I don't want you to leave me either…" Veneziano hesitated, "although I don't think I've ever thought about it before."

_That's because __you__ didn't spend half of your life being abandoned by people who were supposed to care about you,_ Romano thought bitterly.

"I love you both, Romano, a lot. But I can't read minds, and you never _tell_ me when you're scared or upset or lonely. I _try_, but if I guess wrong and you don't want me around, then you get mad. And you usually _don't_ want me around, so I… I guess I don't try that much anymore."

Romano started to shake his head again before remembering that his brother couldn't see it. "That's not – it's not like that! You _don't_ get it – you're always with Germany, _always_, whenever I _do_ need you, and I – he deserves you a lot more than I do!"

For the third or fourth time, there was a pregnant pause as Veneziano puzzled over this new information and Romano tried to figure out exactly where the hell it had come from. _I don't __really__ feel like that, right? Of course not, that creepy asshole should just get away from him so I don't have to compete – shit, I do. Well, that's fucking wonderful._

"Romano," Veneziano said, eventually, "I don't know why you feel like you don't deserve to be loved… but I really want to give you a hug."

_Oh, great, and now I'm bawling again. I'm not answering the next time he calls._

"Wait, hold on." The voice in the background was too muffled to make out most of the words, but Romano distinctly heard 'un-awesome'. Twice. "Um… there's a fire extinguisher in the pantry."

"What the hell is he doing to my kitchen?" Romano snapped. Last time Prussia had been left in there unsupervised, he'd broken a window with a spatula.

"I don't know. And don't change the subject, _ve_. I love Germany, but I don't love him more than I love you, and I'd let go of him before I'd ever leave you alone."

_Damn it!_

"Romano, are you crying?"

"No!" Romano hiccupped, scrubbing his eyes with a corner of the coverlet. "No, I…" As usual, all the things he _wanted_ to say got stuck in his throat, and what came out was, "I just wish you'd stop being so _sappy_. I'm already sick, don't make it any worse."

"Sorry!" He didn't sound particularly sorry. "But you needed to hear it."

"I… yeah, I guess."

"_Ve_, about Germany –"

"I still hate him," Romano interrupted. He was overwhelmingly tired at this point, and he knew Veneziano would probably never fully understand why he didn't like the man. Better to just wrap this up as best he could before he fell asleep on the phone and ran his bill up. "And I don't trust him with _you_. But I _do_ trust him to know that if he ever does anything to hurt you, he'll be getting a visit from some of my, ahem, friends." Nobody took _Romano_ seriously, but being threatened with the Mafia usually did the trick. "Look, I don't care what you do with him – well, I do, but I'm not going to stop you. Just… quit doing it in the kitchen, for God's sake."

"But I _like_ the kitchen~"

"Too bad! Have some common decency!"

Veneziano began giggling, and Romano's lips twitched involuntarily. "Okay, okay. _Ve_, I'm going to fly over to Spain's a little later."

"I said you don't need to come here, you and that bastard had a date or something –"

"Well, I _want_ to. You're still sick and I can throw Germany out, he won't mind. We'll watch movies when you're better – don't tell him I said so, but he always picks out really _boring_ ones. And I have to give you a hug, remember?"

Picturing his delicate little brother physically throwing Germany out of the house was one of the best mental images Romano had had in a long time. "I –"

"Uh-uh! No arguing!"

Romano flung his free arm out in a classic I-give-up pose and swore as he nearly broke his fingers on the nightstand. "Fine! Whatever! Do what you want."

"All right!" Judging by his tone, Veneziano was all smiles again. "I'll get a flight out after lunch, okay? I should probably make sure Prussia didn't burn down the kitchen… oh, and tell Spain I want his paella recipe~ see you later!"

"Yeah, yeah," Romano said. "Bye." Sighing, he closed his phone and set it on the nightstand. They hadn't really solved anything, but he felt _better_, and he was relieved that Veneziano would be on his way soon enough – the knowledge that he'd ditch his boyfriend to take care of his sick brother was sort of nice. Romano felt rather special.

There was a soft creaking noise on the other side of the room. He cracked open an eye he didn't remember closing to see Spain standing in the open doorway, looking _deliriously_ happy. Romano stared at him for a moment, wondering if he'd been dipping into the Netherlands' "Special Box" again. "What are you – how long have you been there?"

"Oh, _Romano_!" And suddenly Romano had two armfuls of Spaniard, who was peppering kisses all over his face and babbling about how proud he was while simultaneously snuggling him until he could barely draw breath. 'Flabbergasted' did not even _begin_ to describe Romano's feelings at the moment.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He weakly pushed Spain away, but not before the man tried something that could only be considered the X-rated version of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. "And _stop that_, you're going to get sick too."

"I'm so _proud_ of you," Spain cooed. He got in one last kiss and stopped squeezing Romano's ribcage, allowing him to breathe properly again.

"For what, idiot?" _If he says __one __word__ about me not wetting my bed… I swear I'm going to put a toothbrush through his eye._

Spain beamed. "You actually talked to Veneziano!" He propped himself up on his elbows and rested his forehead against Romano's. "I'm really glad, Roma," he said softly, "You bottle everything up too much. It's unhealthy."

"Did you just call me _Roma_?" Romano muttered, feeling his cheeks burn.

The goofy grin widened. "Yup – ow!" Spain's face contorted into a ridiculous-looking pout as he rubbed the sore patch of skin on his hip. "Don't pinch me!"

"Don't call me Roma." Remembering that he was wearing only a pair of boxers, Romano squirmed out from under Spain and drew the quilts up around himself– not out of modesty (after all, Spain had seen _much_ more than that), but because he was getting cold again. "And did you have to call him? I wasn't _that_ bad off."

"You were so sick you told me someone killed me and put me in the freezer," Spain said. Romano snorted. "And you were _frantic_ when you found out he wasn't here and thought something was going to happen to him. I thought he should know in case you were still feverish and he needed to get here quick."

"Well, I'm fine," Romano mumbled, embarrassed. Great, like his little emotional breakdown last night hadn't been bad enough. _Fuck it, next time I get sick, I'm staying home._ "And we… worked it out. Kind of. He's going to fly over later."

"Good!" Smiling, the other nation stretched his arms over his head and gave a huge yawn, then rubbed at his eyes. Romano felt a another pang of guilt, wondering how much sleep Spain had sacrificed to take care of him. "Do you want something to eat?"

Romano cringed. "God, no."

"Okay." Spain ran his fingers through Romano's hair, unbothered by the sweaty texture. "You ought to drink some water, though, you're probably dehydrated."

"I had a glass earlier," Romano said, choosing not to mention the one he'd quickly rejected. His second attempt had actually stayed down, which was a massive relief – throwing up got old after a while. The muscles in his stomach, unaccustomed to being brutalized in such a manner, were beginning to throb. _Guess it could have been worse… like that cholera epidemic._ He shivered at the memory and Spain, taking it as a chill, shifted closer and let himself be used as a personal heater. Having cholera had been _hell_. Compared to that, a little flu was nothing.

"Good," Spain said again. He was nuzzling Romano's hair now, which Romano thought was a bit disgusting, as he hadn't showered since the day before yesterday. "Your fever's almost gone, too… you're feeling better now, right?"

"I guess so." The nausea was more annoying than anything now. Suddenly recalling the reason he'd gone to Spain's in the first place, he muttered, "As long as you never write me any more shitty poetry while you're drunk, I'll be fine."

"Does that mean I can write you poetry when I'm _not_ drunk?"

"Absolutely not. And speaking of… where's my rosary?"

"Hm?" Spain's eyes opened halfway. "Um… well, it was in the kitchen, but I moved it when I started mopping so I wouldn't get it wet… into the dining room? Wait, no, I thought I brought it up here…" He craned his neck and looked around the room. "Maybe not. Um…"

"In other words, you have no idea."

"No."

"Dumbass," Romano grumbled, swatting him upside the head. "You'd damn well better find it. I didn't come all the way over here for you to lose it again."

"But _Romanoooo_… I thought you came over because you _loved_ me!" Spain was pouting again, but his eyes were bright with mirth. He slipped his hand under the blankets and lay a warm hand flat against Romano's stomach, fingers splayed and just barely brushing the waistband of his boxers. Romano's breath caught in his throat even though he knew he was far too tired and queasy to get aroused. "And you wanted to eat my _delicious_ cooking!"

"Well, I didn't do much eating, did I?" Romano yanked the pillow out from under Spain and plopped it over his laughing face. "Now let me sleep!"

"You're so _cute_ when you're annoyed…"

"Damn it! Shut up and suffocate, already!"

"Aw, I love you too!"

Romano kicked Spain off the bed and was rewarded with a peal of laughter. He rolled onto his stomach, piled the pillows over his head to shut out that idiot's incessant giggling, and tried to pretend he wasn't smiling.

* * *

The end. :)

I know, this part went in a pretty much unrelated direction... further evidence that I should not write anything while I'm sick. Oh well! Reviews will make me a happy panda.


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